


Of Planning and Pool Cues

by UmbraeCalamitas



Series: Become the Beast [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Arguments, Big Brother Dean, Big Brother Sam Winchester, College, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Emotional Abuse, Feels, Fix-It, Homophobic Language, Humor, John Winchester is an asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pool & Billiards, Sam Winchester is a badass, Stanford Era, The world isn't black and white, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, University, and neither is the supernatural, i can't write sam without angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbraeCalamitas/pseuds/UmbraeCalamitas
Summary: Sam's back at the start of his time at Stanford, against all odds and the Winchester Luck. Now he has four unexpected years to plan for, so he better get started.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The response to _Of Pagan Gods and Cadbury Cremes_ was overwhelming. You guys are completely amazing and I love you all.
> 
> I was going to wait to post this up, but Gabrielle commented and said she would die if she didn't get more. So here you go, Gabby. No dying! ;)
> 
> Guess who doesn't own Supernatural? Me! But I like to play in their sandbox and they're nice enough to leave the gate open.

Stanford was… the same. 

It seemed different. For a while, Sam kept trying to figure out what had changed. It took him a few days to realize nothing had. Stanford was the same.  _ He _ was different.

He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that.

On the one hand, he was glad to be back. Not just for the chance to go through and make sure the thing with the apocalypse didn’t go the same as it had the last time, but also because there was so much he could do differently  _ here _ . He had never expected, not in his wildest imaginings, that he would end up this far back. Not just  _ in Stanford _ , either, but at the start of it. 

He hadn’t even had his first class, yet. Students were still moving in and class wouldn’t start for another two weeks. Sam, himself, hadn’t been situated in a dorm, yet. He was still living in the small apartment he had rented for a couple weeks when he arrived to Stanford a month before term began. If memory served (and things stayed the same), he would be getting an email with details of where he would be living for the next year.

Of course, it was possible things would have changed. Sam had already set things into motion that would make his time here very different from his first time living it. He’d had reasons for choosing to pursue a law degree that first time, in part because he knew he would be able to assist hunters who were caught by the police while working a job. And he’d be able to do it without having to  _ hurt _ anyone. 

There was also the fact that Law required a lot of mental activity. It would be challenging, but not like hunting was challenging. Hunting required him to determine what a creature was and find a way to defeat it - to kill it. Law would be even more challenging because Sam wouldn’t be using a wooden stake to take out the problem. He’d be using his knowledge and wits, and he’d be arguing a side, making his point to a jury who would  _ listen _ to him when he spoke. 

The listening part? That was big for him. 

Sam had tried to argue his side before to his father, but anything that suggested against killing every non-human creature that stepped in their path was furiously beaten down by John. Not-human meant they deserved to die and Sam… he just, he didn’t like that. He never had. 

There were monsters, sure, and they’d dealt with their fair share over the years, taking out rugarus who were going after children or vampires who killed women on the streets at night. Saving people, Sam could get behind. 

It was hearing of someone who did magic and hunting them because “all witches deserved to burn” that Sam couldn’t understand. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew there were witches out there who had sold their souls for magic, for power. But Sam also spent most of his time doing research and he’d learned things over the years. Things that suggested that there were witches who were born with magic, or who fell into it over the years without any demonic assistance. Hunting down a woman who performed scrying spells to find lost pets? That wasn’t something Sam had wanted to be a part of.

He’d run for a lot of reasons. Some he remembered because they were ingrained in him - his disbelief that everything nonhuman was a monster, his need to be able to use his mind to do  _ good _ , his desperate desire to understand what a normal life would be like. 

He was sure there were other reasons, ones he didn’t recall, things that, during the fight, had made it easier to leave. But he wondered, a little, unsure, if he hadn’t sensed something about himself all those years ago. He’d always felt… unclean in a way he never could have explained. And while his younger self had never understood that the demon blood he was forced to ingest was the cause of that, Sam wondered if part of him hadn’t recognized the powers he held. If he’d run for a lot of reasons, but if one hadn’t been to save himself from becoming a hunt for John. 

Knowing now what he did about that night so many years ago, and about the final words John spoke to Dean, Sam didn’t have a lot of faith in John’s sense of paternal obligation preventing him from turning a gun on Sam if he understood the magnitude of Sam’s powers. 

Or what he was meant for.

If John Winchester knew that Sam was meant to be Lucifer’s vessel, Sam didn’t think his father would hesitate to put a bullet in his brain. 

Sam sighed into the paper cup he held, glancing down at the dribble of coffee that always lingered in the bottom, unattainable. Like peace. Or hope.

_ You’re sitting in front of a fountain at Stanford, in your nineteen-year-old body, _ he told himself.  _ If that’s not hope, then you need to find a dictionary. And some alcohol. _

He did have hope. He was back here, against all odds, and his brother was only a phone call away if Sam really wanted to talk to him. Granted, it would be an awkward phone call and this Dean would be very different from the one Sam had left, but it would still be  _ Dean.  _

He’d thought about it. Thought about calling, or just texting, but it had only been a few weeks since he left, since the fight, and this Dean would still be his father’s little soldier. No matter that Dean had ultimately let Sam go to Stanford (reluctantly and hurt, but Dean  _ had _ let him go). Part of Sam wanted to tell Dean everything, to have his brother fully there by his side, but he knew that it wouldn’t happen now. Not with John still calling the shots. Calling  _ for _ shots, and putting bullets in anything that looked funny. 

Sam understood the man was still grieving the loss of Mary in some ways, but he’d let revenge consume him and let it take over his whole life. Even Dean and Sam had taken a backseat to John’s need to hunt. The man only seemed to act like a father to--

“Adam,” Sam gasped, dropping his cup. The paper cup bounced off his shoe and landed on the ground, the last dribble of coffee dripping from its edge, but Sam paid it no mind. 

Adam was still alive in this life. Still alive and… Sam did a quick calculation in his head. Roughly around twelve currently. 

Sam dug his fingers into his hair and pulled. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about Adam, but…

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His thoughts were whirling, a thousand ideas rushing through him, from  _ go get Adam right now and protect him _ to  _ pray to an angel to protect them _ to  _ call Dad and tell him he’s a fucking asshole.  _ That last one had a lot of promise but Sam didn’t think it would go over well. Besides, how would he explain being aware of his half-brother? And god, Dean would be ruined by the knowledge. He still believed their father was a saint. 

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. Okay.

Okay.

He couldn’t show up at their door with no warning and explain the supernatural to them. That would be unkind and lead to all sorts of trouble. He had time. Adam didn’t come into the picture of their lives until much later. Sam would need to keep an eye out, in case his changing things had an adverse effect, but he didn’t need to jump into action right this instant. He had time to think.

Thank god, because he didn’t know where to start. 

_ Making a plan sounds good.  _

Dean, Cas, and Crowley had helped him to come up with a plan but they had been working with the idea that Sam would arrive back sometime within the first or second year with Dean, if Fate was kind. Except, Fate had been more than kind, and now there were four years that they hadn’t accounted for in front of Sam, no plan in sight beyond the barest of ideas.

Standing up from the stone boundary of the fountain, Sam scooped up his coffee cup and threw it in a nearby trash can. He slung his bag over his shoulder and started to walk. 

His apartment was paid up through the next two weeks - long enough for him to move into a dorm room. He had a couple hundred dollars and, if he was lucky, the landlord of his apartment would refund him the pay for the week he didn’t live there like he had the first time Sam moved out early. 

He needed to pick up some supplies, but first, he needed to make sure his funds were a little steadier. 

Sam headed back toward his apartment to get a few hours of sleep. He’d be spending some time at a bar that night. Easiest way to make some quick cash - hustle some guys at pool. Sometimes his brother did know what he was talking about.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a couple weeks since the fight before Sam left for Stanford. That argument isn't an easy one to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for emotional abuse from a parent.  
> Holy shit, guys. I woke up this morning to my inbox blowing up from reviews. Ya'll're freaking amazing. Have a chapter!!
> 
> Special thanks to the Discord Crew to being phenomenal and helping me smooth out an outline.

“You don’t want to a part of this family, just say so!”

“That’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it? You been pushing to get out of here for years, Sammy. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what you’re thinking.” John glared at him, his dark eyes narrowed in rage. “Don’t you lie to me.”

“Would you just _listen_ to me?” Sam gasped. They were both standing in the kitchen, Sam’s bag lying in the corner of the room where John had thrown it after he ripped it from Sam’s shoulder. He’d heard something rip when the bag had torn loose so he’d have to be careful when he picked it up. He hoped it was still salvageable.

“I don’t want this to be my whole life,” he said, desperation making his voice thick. He struggled with his self-control, willing himself not to cry. His eyes stubbornly burned and he could feel the heat on his face, a mixture of anger and fear. “I don’t want to wake up twenty years down the road and realize how much I missed.”

“So you’re just gonna leave, that it? Run off an abandon your family?”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Why was his dad acting like this? He just… he just wanted to live a life that was normal. He wanted… he…

“Why can’t I just have a normal life?”

“Because we’re Hunters, Sam!” John yelled.

“But what if I don’t want to be?” Sam asked, his own voice rising without his volition. “What if I want to try living like a normal person? What if I want to know what it’s like to not pull a gun on every odd shadow or creaking door?”

“You think you can just turn it off?” John snapped, stepping forward until he was barely an inch from Sam. His dad was still taller than him, if only just, and he used all of his height and his anger to get right in Sam’s face - a classic intimidation technique Sam himself had been taught until he mastered. He hated using it, hated acting like he was superior or like he would attack someone if they disagreed. That’s part of why he wanted _*out*_. He couldn’t take this anymore.

“Dad, please,” Sam whispered, but John ignored him, pressing forward and forcing Sam to step back or be walked into. “I just want a normal life.”

“Our lives aren’t _normal_! They never have been!”

“They were once,” Sam snapped back, the anger at his father’s lies snapping forward like a snake. “Maybe I want a chance of what you had with Mom!”

“Your mother’s _dead_ because we lived a normal life, because we didn’t know what was out there! Normal killed her and you want to go back to that? You just want to erase her?”

“I don’t even remember her!”

John slammed his fist into the wall by Sam’s face, the plaster crumbling against the force. Sam jerked away, gasping in surprise, and heard a hiss of breath from across the room. He glanced up to see that Dean had stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, face red with restraint.

John pulled his hand out of the hole he had made in the plaster and Sam looked back at him, ready to move if he needed to, but John didn’t raise his fist again. They were clenched tight at his sides, the right one white with drywall dust. He glared at Sam, his eyes dark with fury, but Sam’s back was pressed to the wall. He had nowhere to retreat to.

“Dad,” Dean said tentatively.

“Stay out of this, Dean!” John snapped, not looking away from Sam. “Or were you planning on leaving, too?”

“I… no,” Dean said, the surprise clear in his voice. “Of course not.”

John nodded. His jaw was clenched tight. “So you’re just gonna walk away, Sam? Just like that? What would’ve happened if Dean hadn’t stopped you? Would you have even said goodbye?”

Sam didn’t answer, which he supposed was answer enough. His plan had been to catch the bus and call Dean from his cell once he was on the move, too far away for Dean to catch him even with his foot to the floor. But Dean had seen him leaving, seen the bag slung over his shoulder, and Sam hadn’t been able to keep walking with Dean’s confused and frightened “Sam?” echoing in his ears.

“So that’s how it is,” John said, and his voice sounded cooler but the rage was only banked, simmering low, like a tide waiting to rise. The man stepped back, away from Sam, and gestured at the bag in the corner. “Fine, then. Go. Get out.”

Sam eyed him warily for a moment, then stepped past him. He grabbed his bag from the floor, noting that one of the straps had been torn from the back and now dangled uselessly. He’d had to replace it once he got to California.

“Sam--”

“No, Dean. Let him go if he wants to go. Let him run off like a coward. We don’t need him.”

Sam tried to hide how much that hurt but he didn’t think he managed very well. He swung his bag over his shoulder by its good strap and headed for the door. He didn’t think there was anything left to say. He was pushing the door open when John spoke, and his voice held all the threat Sam had only ever heard him use on monsters.

“You walk out that door, Sam, you don’t ever come back.”

Sam froze in the doorway, cold rushing over his skin. His breath stuttered in his lungs and he felt tears rush to his eyes. He distantly heard Dean snap at their dad, panic in his voice, but John’s voice spoke over him, a growled threat. “You hear me, Samuel? Don’t you ever come back.”

Sam’s fingers tightened on the doorknob, then he nodded without turning around. “Yes, sir.”

The door banged shut behind him as he continued walking, and it took everything in him not to turn around when he heard Dean screaming after him, heard his father’s raised voice and Dean’s angry reply. Sam fought the urge to turn around one last time to see his brother.

He wasn’t going to give John the satisfaction of his tears.

* * *

Sam’s eyes snapped open and he sucked in a sharp breath, the sudden force of the air hitting the back of his throat like a karate chop. He coughed hard, rolling over and kicking the blankets off of himself. He sat up, letting his feet brush the carpeted floor, and ran his hands through his hair. It was tangled and his fingers caught. Sam hissed at the sharp tug and untangled his fingers. He sighed as he wiped his face, his fingers coming away wet with tears.

He gingerly wiped his eyes. They were sore and the lids ached. He glanced at his clock and sighed.

11:07 PM

He wished he was surprised but really, he should have expected to dream of that night. Being back here, and with this body so soon removed from that moment, it was no surprise that his mind gravitated to the fight with John and his disownment. He wondered if the memories were clearer because of the age of this body, if perhaps his mind had returned but this version of Sam that he had replaced had merely assimilated his future knowledge, rather than completely replacing the version that had been here. If that were the case, it made sense that the memory of the fight was as crisp as it was.

Sam stood up and moved toward the bathroom, his hand trailing along the wall so he didn’t have to turn on lights. He grabbed a washcloth out of the bathroom cupboard and soaked it in cold water before cover his eyes with it. The cold soothed the burn of his eyes and he sighed in relief.

He itched to find his phone and dial Dean. Wanted to call his brother and tell him that he was fine, that he’d made it Stanford, that he was safe and all right and there was salt on every windowsill and in front of every door. He wanted to call and listen to his brother’s voice. He wanted to soothe away the memory of Dean frantically calling his name as he walked away, but he knew he couldn’t. If John found out…

Dean had snuck out of the house later that night and made his way to the bus station, determined to make sure his little brother was all right. Sam had missed the bus he’d been hoping to catch because of the fight with John and hadn’t wanted to waste what little money he’d had for a motel room. He’d been using his bag as a pillow, hand fisted around the broken strap, when Dean plopped into the seat next to him.

What followed was an interrogation of his plans, of what the letter he’d received had said, of what he planned to do for money and a place to stay. Sam had answered every question, feeling obligated to give his brother this after trying to leave without saying goodbye and pissing off John.

He’d expected Dean to drag him back, to bully him until he walked through the door to the house and was left at the mercy of John’s whim. He didn’t know whether to expect that John would accept him back on the condition that he never left again or to be thrown out, but he hadn’t anticipated Dean.

His brother had pulled out a few hundred dollars from his pocket and slapped it into Sam’s hand with a growled “Here.” Dean had pulled a messenger bag out of the inner pocket of his coat. “Put your stuff in here before you end up dropping it everywhere.” He’d helped Sam transfer his meager supply of clothes to the new bag, Dean’s mouth in a tight line and his responses to Sam’s questions coming out as grunts more often than words.

“When’s your bus leave?”

“Eight in the morning. Dean-” he cried, as Dean pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, let’s get a motel room.”

“Dean, I can’t-”

“You aren’t sleeping here, Sammy. You’ll get your gangly ass mugged within an hour and then you’ll never make it to… wherever.”

“Stanford.”

“Right. Stanford.” They’d walked in silence for a while, before Dean quietly added, “And maybe I want to spend one more night with my brother before he disappears into a normal life.”

Sam hesitated, then quietly said, “You could come with me.”

Dean snorted. “Like Dad would let us both leave.” He sighed. “Besides, I’d hate college. Fucking eggheads everywhere. Nah, man, I like the life.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “Won’t be the same without you, though.”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, his voice rough. “Don’t, uh… don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. But you don’t let those professors rip your brains out through your ears or something, all right? And call… if you need something. Call when you get there. I wanna know you’re all right, Sam. Just… might not pick up is all.” Sam knew what he meant. If John heard Dean talking to Sam so soon after their fight, it wouldn’t be a fun time for Dean.

“I’ll be discrete.”

“You do that.” Dean clapped him on the back. “Now come one, Sammy. There’s a hotel just down the street that said they’ve got a free hot breakfast in the morning and I’m hankering for some pancakes!”

Sam’s mouth quirked into a smile. “I’m gonna miss you, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t be such a fucking girl.” Dean’s shoulder nudged into his. “I’m gonna miss you, too, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam muttered, as they made their way to the hotel.

In the morning, he’d shared a hot breakfast of pancakes and crappy eggs with Dean before his brother saw him off at the bus stop. He’d stared out the window like the girl in every cliche romantic movie and watched as his brother stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching until the bus turned and they lost sight of each other.

It’d been only a couple weeks since they’d seen each other, and only two days for the version of Sam that had come back from the future, but he missed his brother like air. He’d used a payphone to call Dean’s cell, letting the phone ring until the voicemail picked up and then just listened to his brother’s voice for a minute, the cocky tone of his voice soothing and aching at once.

He hadn’t spoken a word but let the message drag on, the phone likely picking up ambient noise from the busy street. After two minutes, he hung up. Dean would get the message. He always did.

Sam exhaled a breath and threw the washcloth in the hamper, blinking into the mirror. He could see a vague outline of himself in the darkness, no true detail, but he imagined his eyes were red and his face still stained with tears.

A shower sounded good, to clear away the memories, and then he’d make his way to the bar. A couple good nights of hustling drunken idiots out of their cash at the pool table and he’d be set to stock up on some things. He told his brother he was going to be safe and he _would_ , but he planned to make sure Dean was safe, too. That was the whole reason he’d come back and he didn’t intend to wait to act just because he was earlier than expected. His brother was not going to suffer Hell, no matter what Heaven and Hell had to say about it, and that was final.

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam was just planning to hustle a couple unsuspecting frat boys out of their cash, but he found someone far more in need of being taught a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic slurs and just general assholery.  
> Thanks to the Discord Crew for all their help putting this together and all of the amazing support.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, kudos'd and bookmarked this fic so far. You are all amazing and wonderful and holy cow, I did not anticipate this level of interest. 
> 
> I've got the next fic in the series already started to get your read-through of this one done and leave a comment. ;) I'll have it up soon! <3

There were three bars within a mile of campus that Sam had scoped out once he arrived. He was aware of a few more within a ten mile radius but he wasn’t interested in finding his way to them tonight. Cab rides were expensive and he didn’t want to deal with the hassle. 

Instead, he picked the closest bar, a little rundown joint carded Barbed Wire and Lace that he thought Dean would enjoy for the name alone. He’d been in it before during his first run and was somewhat familiar with it, though he and his friends had preferred a bit more upscale bar on the other side of town when they were celebrating. Sam wasn’t out to celebrate tonight. Barbed Wire and Lace hosted exactly the sort of clientele he was looking for. 

The bar was smokey inside, the air thick with a nicotine haze, but Sam ignored it. He’d been in enough bars running around with Dean and his dad that he’d grown accustomed to the smell of cigarettes and he had a fake ID in his pocket that would pass an FBI inspection if it was so required, so he didn’t have to worry over been caught out as too young to drink. In a few months, when his professors were more familiar with his face, that could become a problem, but he had some time yet.

He made his way to the bar and took a seat, ordering a beer from the bartender with a vague glance, his eyes scanning over the people. College towns brought college people to the bars and he recognized a few faces with vague memory, noting a few professors he wouldn’t have this time around and even catching sight of someone he thought might be his former Anatomy professor. That man could dissect people with his eyes. Sam would  _ not _ be taking his class again. 

The bar scene was relaxing in its familiarity but Sam found himself missing the presence of his brother. Dean would normally be sat beside him, nursing his own beer and scoping out the possibilities. Well. Once upon a time that had been the case. Less so near the end.

Sam smiled into his beer and thought about the ridiculousness that was his brother and Cas dancing around one another. He forced himself to ignore the possibility that nothing of the sort might happen this time. That Cas might be someone that once was and could never be, because he was changing things. 

He wasn’t going to think of it. Not tonight. 

There was a curse from across the room and then laughter. Sam turned his attention to the pool game that had just ended, one party handing over a handful of bills to his grinning opponent. He studied them through his lashes, head ducked down and breath exhaling into his beer. He watched the loser sulk off to nurse a beer at a far table while the winner began to set the pool table up again, clearly planning for another game. 

Good.

He was tall - almost the same height as Sam was currently - but bulkier, with wide shoulders and a stomach that spoke of nights spent on a barstool. Jeans and a plain shirt told no sure story, but the cowboy boots were scuffed with heavy use and the ten gallon hat was faded from the sun. A frequent at bars but not this one, and not a local, if Sam had to guess. He wasn’t a student here, then, just someone passing through, working over the college students in much the same way Sam had planned to, but the sneer on his face told a cruel story. 

Sam’s fingers tapped against the glass bottle in his hands as he watched the pool table put back to rights, watched the man chalk his pool cue and circle the table like a tiger. After a few minutes, the man began a solitary game, sending the cue ball into the rack with a  _ crack _ . Sam watched the numbered balls burst like a firework around the table, bouncing off the edges but none of them going into the pockets.

The man was better than some other players, yes, but he had no true skill.

An easy mark.

Sam didn’t go over right away, though. He watched. The man stalked the table with an arrogance that grated on Sam’s nerves but would be a benefit during the game. As would the three beers the man consumed while showing off his skill. When he disappeared to the bathroom, Sam ordered himself another beer and finished off his first, making his way over to the abandoned pool table. 

He was putting the rack back in place when the man came out of the bathroom. Sam deliberately ignored the heavy tread as it stalked up behind him, beer in one hand as he switched a few of the balls around so the numbers were in order. 

“Oi, girly. Get yer hands of my balls.” 

Sam took his time fixing the rack before he turned around, schooling his face into a look of disinterest. He eyed the man for a moment before going and fetching the cue ball. 

“You hear me?”

“I heard you,” Sam said, turning back around and placing the cue ball at the headspot. “And you couldn’t pay me to touch your balls.” He leaned his hip against the edge of the table and lifted his pool cue from where it rested across the green fabric. “These balls, though… you’ll have to play to claim them.” 

“And what if I don’t wanna pay for what’s mine?” the man demanded, stepping forward. His size and the ferocity of his glare would have deterred most people, but Sam was definitely not most people. Not even when he was  _ actually _ nineteen. 

He took a casual swig of his beer and raised an unconcerned eyebrow at his giant mess of an opponent. The man’s fingers tightened around his pool stick but he let out a growl of acquiescence, probably deciding it was better to wipe the floor with Sam and be done with him than risk getting thrown out of the bar for good because he decided to try and kick Sam’s ass. 

Sam  _ almost _ wished he would try. 

“One hundred down on me mopping the floor with your hair,  _ Princess _ .”

Sam smiled benignly, unconcerned with the nickname. Really, Dean called him a girl at least once a week. Come up with something more original at least. 

“Sure,” he said, pulling out the hundred he had stuck in his back pocket. He placed it on the edge of the table in plain view and raised an eyebrow at the man, who growled and yanked a few twenties out of his pocket. 

“Don’t believe I’d keep my bets?”

“I like putting my money where my mouth is,” Sam said casually. “Especially since the stakes might get a bit higher as we play.” He phrased the second like a question but didn’t give the man time to answer as he motioned at the cue. “Challenger’s first.”

“I ain’t no challenger.”

“Fine, then. I’ll go.” Sam moved over to the edge of the table and positioned his shot. He sent the cue ball into the rack with a cracking sound that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the sound the two balls made as they dropped into the pockets. 

Sam sent a casual smile at the other man and followed the cue ball around the table. 

This was going to be so much fun. 

 

* * *

Dougherty was the name of Sam’s opponent and his creativity with swearing didn’t get any better the more he lost. By the third game, his face was red with a mixture of fury and embarrassment and he had graduated from calling Sam a girl to using some derogatory language that might have sincerely embarrassed Sam if he hadn’t accepted his attraction to men a long time ago. Instead, he simply raised the bet another hundred and watched the man struggle with his pride. 

They had gained a bit of an audience. He noted with amusement the glee on some of the faces of college students as they watched the man curse up a storm as Sam put another ball in the pocket. He had dragged out the first game, purposely shooting poorly and talking constantly, keeping Dougherty distracted and unprepared for the fullness of his skill. Sam had won the game by a bare margin and collected his winnings ($300 by that point), and managed to talk the guy into a second game.

Halfway through, the man had started calling Sam a cheat. This was after Dougherty’s last opponent (Jonesy, Sam had heard someone call him) had taken a seat at a nearby table to watch. Sam had performed a trick shot that Dean had taught him just to piss the guy off, sending the 6 ball into a far pocket after it bounced against three walls and somehow missed a cluster of other balls. The subsequent cursing had attracted a couple other patrons who joined Jonesy at his table, nursing their beers as they watched Sam trounce the asshole who had spent the last couple nights tearing down any opponent that he came across. Sam kept his attention half on the crowd, listening, and heard murmured stories as they were traded between the patrons. This guy had been an unholy terror, not with his skill but with how he would verbally attack his opponents or even prevent them from backing out of a game. He was unsurprised when the bartender commented to another woman as she refilled her drink that the bar had begun to lose business because of it, people choosing to hit up one of the other areas with nicer clientele.

Sam took immense pleasure in putting five of the balls into pockets on the second round and netting himself another $200. 

The man was snarling under his breath as he fixed the rack. Sam leaned casually against the table, chalking his pool cue, and only vaguely listening to the stream of derogatory nonsense coming from his lips. He tilted his head to the side, thinking, and then interrupted with a casual air. “One more game?”

Dougherty snorted. “You think I’m a fucking dumbass? I ain’t putting any more o’ my money against your cheating ass!”

“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars I can get every ball into a pocket before you manage one.” 

He didn’t imagine the hush that fell over the bar. A thousand dollars on a game was a ridiculous bet. Not even on their biggest hustles had Sam and Dean ever dared to bet so much money. For one thing, they rarely had that to spare. For another, it was simply ludicrous. No one would take such a stupid bet. 

“A thousand fucking dollars? Are you serious?”

Sam shrugged, not looking up from the beer in his hand. He had ordered another from the bartender while the man stalked the table on one of his turns, trying to figure out how Sam was cheating. “I already won $500 from you. I’ll just bet that back and double it. I hit all the balls in, you pay up. I miss one, I pay you back what I won from you plus another five hundred.” He finally glanced at the man. “Deal?”

He waited as Dougherty considered his offer. The man appeared to be in deep thought about it, no doubt mentally wading through a lake of alcohol as he tried to weigh the pros and cons of taking the bet. The rest of the bar remained silent, waiting for his decision, and Sam kept the bored look on his face even though he wanted to grin at how much he would enjoy this. 

“Nine Ball,” Dougherty finally said, looking up at him.

Sam nodded slowly. “Nine Ball,” he murmured. 

“What’s Nine Ball?” he heard someone whisper to a friend. 

Sam circled the table, thinking. “Nine Ball,” he said, loud enough for the other patrons to hear, “is a game of pool using all nine balls, placed in a specific order.” He picked through the balls where they sat in the rack, placing the nine ball in the center and the five behind it. “It requires that the balls be hit into pockets in numerical order, starting with one and ending with nine. Meaning sinking the eight ball won’t lose me the game unless I hit it out of order.” He looked at Dougherty. “Correct?”

“That’s right,” he growled out, bravado heavy in his voice. “You miss one of those balls and sink ‘em in the wrong order and I get one thousand bucks.” His eyes were cruel when they locked on Sam’s. “You know how to count, faggot?” 

“I’ve managed to count to five hundred so far tonight. I think I can manage nine.” He finished off his beer and set it on an empty table out of the way. “Do we have a deal, then?”

“Deal,” the man snarled. Sam found himself smiling in amusement, thinking of Crowley and what was required to sign a deal with the King of Hell. He wondered what Dougherty would say if Sam demanded they kiss on it, tongue optional. 

“What’re you smiling about?”

“Just enjoying the game.” He lined up his shot for the break and hit the cue ball into the first ball in the rack. The balls burst around the table, ricocheting off the walls, and Sam’s eyes tracked the ball with the 1 on its front. It had been the first in the rack and missing it and hitting a different ball would have lost him the game right there. Now he needed to be sure it was the first one he sunk.

“Scared, Potter?” Sam muttered under his breath.

Dougherty stared at him in complete confusion, which made sense since that meme wouldn’t become a thing for a few years. Sam merely grinned at him and sunk the one ball into the far pocket with absolute fucking glee.

What followed was a game the locals would be talking about for years. Sam sank every ball into the pocket in order, one to nine. He missed three times and during Dougherty’s turns, the man failed to pocket a ball even once. By the time Sam sank the nine ball, the man was nearly burgundy in rage, but to his credit, he paid Sam one thousand dollars in cash and didn’t try to take his head off with the pool cue. 

Sam blushed as their audience erupted into cheers. He pocketed the cash he had received from the man except for a hundred, which he passed to the bartender as she headed over to pick up his empty bottle from the table. “Buy everyone a round, okay?”

She glanced at the hundred, surprised. “Your friend, too?” she asked carefully.

“Everyone,” he said, smiling softly. 

She huffed a breath and took the bill, patting his cheek lightly. “What a cute thing you are. You got it, hun.” She disappeared behind the bar and called out a free round, which resulted in more cheers. 

Sam used the noise and the ensuing chaos of drink deliveries to slip out the back door. He could usually drink a few more beers before he had to worry about his state of mind, but he didn’t really want to test whether or not a tolerance to alcohol would transfer with his memories across time. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way back toward campus, a small smile on his face. 

He’d ruined any chance he had of ever hustling pool in that bar again but he thought it was worth it. After being so soundly trounced, it was likely that Dougherty would make his way out of town as quickly as he could. He might find another bar where he could torment people, but Sam hoped maybe his lesson would give the guy even a second’s pause. 

He snorted. His  _ lesson _ . He sounded like fucking Gabriel. 

Shaking his head, Sam considered his options. The downside of staying in one place was that hustling pool wouldn’t be a source of income that he could keep up. Eventually (or rather quickly, if tonight was any example of how things would go), Sam’s face would be recognized as someone you didn’t bet against. In all likelihood, he would be welcome in Barbed Wire and Lace again, but not permitted to play pool. It wouldn’t be the first time he or Dean had been barred from betting on games. Sam could maybe get a few nights out of the other two local bars, and a few more at the bars further away from the campus, but it wouldn’t be something he could keep up. 

He could run some credit card scams like he and Dean did on the road, but that was dangerous for the same reason. Sam would be staying in the same place for the next four years - for the most part, anyway. He hadn’t decided whether he’d be hanging around over the summer and taking extra classes or going off to do some hunts elsewhere. Still, questions would come up and it wasn’t worth the risk. 

He needed another source of income. 

His mind mulled over possibilities, categorizing them in his head as something he might look into or something that wouldn’t work. He considered the possibility of getting a part-time job, which was more possible now than it would be later when he got into his more difficult classes, but he still questioned how he would fit that around everything else he needed to do, though he could probably manage it if he planned well. 

He was unlocking the door to his apartment when the answer came to him and he nearly tripped over the threshold. He shut the door and leaned back against it, pressing his fist against his mouth to keep from waking his neighbors as he shook with laughter. 

It was a ridiculous idea, completely mad, and it would never work.

Sam dropped his head back against the door and gave in to his laughter. 

It was going to be hilarious.


End file.
